


Make Love, Not War

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: Cunnilingus, Demonic Possession, F/F, Fingerfucking, Gangbang, Grinding, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, succubus au, tailfucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-03-19 07:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13700127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: With her country nearing ruin, Mòrag attempts to summon a demon. However, something else appears before her, and she might not be able to control it (or herself).





	1. in which Mòrag summons a succubus and loses her virginity

**Author's Note:**

> my thought process went a little something like this:
> 
> > hey what if i make an au where brighid is a demon  
> > hey what if she's a succubus  
> > hey what if i toss out any notion of au world-building and just write a bunch of self-indulgent smut instead  
> > wow perfect

A storm is brewing outside, and things begin to go wrong just when Mòrag lets her guard down.

Searing heat blasts through the entire room without warning, filling her ears and nose and throat and making it painfully difficult to breathe. Reflexively, Mòrag gasps, only to choke on the flames and fall backwards on the floor. This— isn’t supposed to be happening. The books never described anything like this in all their fine print and detailed instructions.

Something’s definitely wrong.

The heat is gathering into a swirling current of fire that gathers at the center of the summoning circle. Mòrag can only sit there in shock as the fires begin to solidify into something human-shaped. She shields her eyes, squinting. The silhouette is too vague and the flames too bright for her to see clearly.

It isn’t Aegaeon, she can deduce that much. The ocean wraith Aegaeon has nothing to do with _fire._ Then, it means she did indeed do something wrong, even though she _never_ makes mistakes, and Mòrag frantically pulls herself up to her feet and fights against the howling fires to reach out to the thing taking form there, to stop the creature from fully materializing into the mortal plane—

A clawed hand snatches her by the wrist.

Mòrag only then realizes how fast her heart is racing, and of the sweat pouring down her temples in thick droplets. She stares down at that clawed hand and weakly tries to tug her arm away, to no avail.

Slowly, reluctantly, her eyes trace a path up that hand, across a limb coated with crystals and flames, to a bare shoulder, to… to…

“You must be my summoner,” the demon hums in a voice of silk as the flames die down, pretty pink lips curling up in a curious smile.

“You’re—“ Mòrag’s throat is excruciatingly dry. “You are not Aegaeon…”

“No, my name is Brighid.”

She’s terrifyingly beautiful, like the women from those exquisite paintings of angels and fae. But angels and fae do not have leathery wings, or limbs coated in demonic flames, or wicked horns or a long, lashing tail. They do not have a body dripping with the auras of temptation and lust. Mòrag’s head grows dizzy with that final observation as she stares longer, recalling a certain page she’d lingered on in an old textbook. Those markings on her forehead are familiar.

_Succubus._

No, oh, no.

Brighid is staring at her as well. Or, at least, Mòrag assumes she’s staring. It’s difficult to tell when her eyes are closed like that. Only the slightest inclinations of her head give away where she’s looking, and Mòrag suddenly feels very uneasy beneath her gaze.

“The look on your face tells me that you indeed meant to summon Aegaeon,” Brighid says, tapping dark claws along Mòrag’s sleeve. “May I ask why?”

Somewhat mortified, Mòrag gives up on trying to free her arm and looks away. Her heart won’t be still. Is it fear, or something else? Numbly, she manages to respond. “… There’s something important to me that I must save.”

“Which is?”

“My country.”

“Ah, how noble.”

She’s polite. Why is she being polite. As Mòrag wonders this, Brighid’s grip on her slackens enough that she’s able to yank herself away and take a couple steps back, wary. Demons aren’t typically known for their kind dispositions. She’d chosen Aegaeon specifically because he was said to be less temperamental than most of his kind and thus easier to control.

As for this demon, _succubus_ , Brighid, Mòrag has no idea who she is or what she’s capable of. As far as she knows, she might have just summoned the ruin of this world.

“This was a mistake. Go back to whence you came,” she manages to say without allowing her voice to tremble. Brighid frowns.

“When I’ve only just arrived?”

“I have no need of a creature such as yourself!” Mòrag says a little too loudly, unwillingly looking up and down Brighid’s body as if she’s being compelled by some unknown force. Her knees beg to tremble, but her shoulders remain tense. “Return to the infernos of Hell, before I force you back.”

“You poor thing. This must be your first time summoning a demon.” And then Brighid is sauntering forward and out of the summoning circle, hips swaying side to side as Mòrag stumbles backwards until she hits the wall. “I can’t leave. The moment you pulled me into this realm, our fates became as one.”

She already knew that. The old textbooks had said as much. Mòrag was just hoping there was some sort of loophole she’d failed to notice.

Summoning is a one-way street. There are no take-backs. If she doesn’t complete the contract soon, her body will become overwhelmed by Brighid’s energy and burn to a crisp. Or, she could complete the contract and still die anyway if she’s unable to control the demon. Either way, there really aren’t many options available for Mòrag.

Brighid must know this as well, if her amused smile is any indication.

“May I have your name, at least?”

“… Mòrag. Mòrag Ladair.”

“It’s a pleasure. You seem nervous, Mòrag.”

Of course she’s nervous. She’s practically caged up against the wall by a damn succubus and everything’s going off the rails, all her plans completely thrown apart by a random _something_ that went wrong in the summoning ritual, and she can’t stop staring at Brighid’s body and she only then remembers what else she had read in that one page about succubi.

But she’s so exquisite.

Brighid lightly touches her face. The flames upon her hand aren’t painful, but the burning sensation is still there.

Then, she opens her eyes, and it’s about the most terrifying thing Mòrag had ever seen.

Her knees buckle and she falls forward, allowing Brighid the chance to wrap her arms and wings around her quaking body and pull her close. Brighid’s smell, the warmth of her bare skin, the hands moving up her back and those wings stretching out like a threat, too many things happening at once for Mòrag to protest or even remember that she had just been trying to think of some way to send Brighid back to the demonic realm.

“I- I, ah—“ Mòrag stutters, an odd sort of unnatural heat shooting through her body.

“I would be yours to command, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid says, dragging a claw up the back of her coat. “But just for this occasion, let me take the lead. Being pulled here had… drained me. I need to recharge.”

She’s manipulating her, Mòrag dimly thinks, trying to divert her attention away from the way that heat now pooling in her lower regions. She squirms and gasps as something coils around her thigh. The demon’s tail. Brighid’s lips are teasing her ear, whispering words in a language she doesn’t understand, but the confusion is enough to snap Mòrag back to her senses, even if only temporarily. She plants her hands on Brighid’s shoulders and struggles to push her off.

“Do not think I would succumb to temptation so easily,” she growls through her teeth. But Brighid’s tail brushes up between her legs and Mòrag gasps out loud, nearly collapsing once more.

Brighid laughs. “Indeed. There would be no joy in simply breaking your willpower to have my way with you.”

As if she even could. She stares defiantly into Brighid’s terrifying eyes and straightens up, all too aware of how close they are. _Don’t look down. Don’t look down._

“There’s no need to hesitate.” Brighid’s wings extend and close around Mòrag, trapping her. “I’ll be of more use to you than Aegaeon could have ever been.”

Thoughts of the dying Empire flash through her mind. Their military is weakened, resources drained, the Senate in shambles as Niall struggles to compromise with everyone, too caught up in the idealisms of youth to effectively rule with the iron fist their father had. It won’t be long before Uraya realizes just how vulnerable they really are and strikes while Mor Ardain is without protection, and then it would truly be the end.

Mòrag could never allow that end to come, even if it meant resorting to the dark arts and doing the unthinkable of summoning a demon.

If she must use this demon, Brighid, instead of Aegaeon as she’d initially planned, then so be it.

But, when she glances over Brighid’s naked form, she finds herself wavering all over again. The methods of sealing a contract with a succubus is different from those of other demons. It’s just…

“Oh… have you never been with another woman before, Lady Mòrag?”

“… No.”

“Men?”

Mòrag involuntarily makes a face. “ _No._ ”

Brighid’s smile widens and she loops her arms around Mòrag’s neck to pull her in once more. This time, Mòrag offers no resistance, though her eyes keep darting to the side and up to the ceiling like she’s trying to look anywhere but at Brighid. Some vestiges of her hesitance still remain. She’s resolved to see this thing through, but her own reservations keep holding her back.

It’s… embarrassing. That’s the most apt way to put it. Brighid kisses the corners of her frown and strokes the back of her neck, sensing her uncertainty.

“I’ll try to be gentle, if that would help.”

“Why are you being so nice?”

“Is that not what you’d prefer? I’m also plenty capable of cruelty.” Her tail, still wrapped around Mòrag’s thigh, rubs her through the thick fabric of her pants again. Mòrag flinches, then flinches again as Brighid bares her fangs and grazes them along her neck. Her breath is hot. She’s hot. Literally, for the most part. It only strikes her as somewhat strange that Brighid’s flames haven’t burned her, but that doesn’t seem very important at the moment.

“I don’t know,” Mòrag admits, a part of her sorely tempted to release herself and allow Brighid to do whatever she wants. “I hadn’t planned for this.”

“So, improvise.”

“There… there is no bed in this room, and I haven’t cleaned my teeth yet—“

She probably needs to shut up. Brighid takes Mòrag’s hands and places them over her breasts, and a strange high-pitched noise escapes the back of Mòrag’s throat.

“Just touch me,” Brighid murmurs against her skin.

“A-ah, _ahhh_ …”

“I’m a succubus. There’s no need to hold back.”

It’s not a matter of Mòrag holding herself back, it’s just her complete and utter lack of experience. She struggles to keep her breathing steady as she marvels at the softness of Brighid’s chest. Brighid lifts her head to observe Mòrag’s face and allow her some space.

Experimentally, she sort of squeezes them, and then her face is in danger of bursting into flames when Brighid lets out an exaggerated moan just to rile her up.

“Your breasts are… lovely…” Mòrag awkwardly says, her hands shaking. Poor thing, she looks so horribly aroused yet terrified. Brighid supposes she should have mercy on her, but.

Completely submerging her all at once would be far more interesting than slowly easing her into the rhythm of things.

So.

Her tail yanks Mòrag’s leg out from beneath her and she falls with a startled grunt, hitting the floor none too gently. Before she can even register what had just happened, Brighid is upon her, swiftly tearing her clothes with sharp claws and leaving scratches along her skin. What’s even happening— this is really happening, she’d delayed sealing the contract far too long and now this succubus is going to devour her alive—

Or not. She sharply arches her back and cries out as Brighid fondles her chest, skillfully rolling each nipple between her fingers. “Brighid—“

“Relax,” she purrs, suckling her throat. “And spread your legs for me, please.”

She can’t. She’d like to, but she can’t. Nothing in her body seems to be responding to her properly, all her senses going haywire with the overwhelming rush of energy she’s unwittingly drawing from Brighid as she’s touched and kissed in ways she could have never dreamt of herself. The frantic look on her face says enough; Brighid smirks and sits back to kneel between her legs, holding them apart to expose her.

What a sight to behold, this young woman helplessly laid bare, her clothes in tatters and past the point of preserving any remnants of her modesty. Brighid looks down at her dripping arousal and licks her lips.

“B-but, your claws,” Mòrag stammers, hiding her face with her hands. She makes the mistake of peeking through her fingers to see Brighid opening her mouth, exposing sharp fangs and… a forked tongue.

Of course her tongue is forked. Why wouldn’t it be.

But Brighid doesn’t duck down. Something else rubs up against Mòrag’s entrance and she yelps, realizing it’s Brighid’s tail again. Her hands slide down to cover her mouth in a weak attempt to muffle her moans as she tries to thrust her hips to get more friction.

It’s not enough. Brighid probably knows that too, which might be why her tail is moving infuriatingly slowly.

Her head spins as she’s suddenly pulled upright, the damn tail still rubbing her as Brighid positions her onto her lap. Mòrag is at least able to sling her arms around her shoulders to steady herself, whimpering at the coiled heat in her gut that refuses to spring. She’s getting close, but Brighid is doing _something_ , which might have something to do with her powers as a succubus— claws are dragging down her back now, forcing her to push herself up against Brighid, and she can practically hear her smirk as her hardened nipples rub up against her.

“I thought… you said… you would be gentle…!” Mòrag pants, still trying to grind herself down harder on Brighid’s tail.

“I said I would _try._ And I did try, but you seem to be much more receptive to being handled roughly.”

Just to prove her point, she digs her claws into Mòrag’s back once more, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to incite her to grind more desperately. Mortified, she tries to turn her face away, but Brighid grips her chin and slams her lips against hers.

Her other hand reaches down between her legs to join her tail in rubbing her. Mòrag groans into the kiss, all too eager and much too clumsy (Brighid realizes she may have never even been _kissed_ before), unsure but enthusiastic about the odd sensation of Brighid’s forked tongue pushing its way into her mouth. She tastes of smoke and something sweet, not at all what Mòrag would’ve expected a demon to taste like.

She can’t remember how to breathe properly. Her hips jerk forward as Brighid gently pushes a fingertip against her clit, and she isn’t entirely certain if those moans just now came from herself or Brighid.

For a split second, Mòrag wonders if other parts of her would taste similar, but the thought is quickly lost as blood rushes through her head and her vision goes white, overbearing pleasure robbing her of breath as Brighid continues to hungrily kiss her and stroke her entrance and folds. Her body would collapse if not for Brighid’s wings supporting her from behind. She can’t think. Demonic energy truly is something to behold, if that’s what it was. No— she knows, and the mortification of realizing she’d just orgasmed on a demon’s lap, to nothing but being touched, makes Mòrag falter and try to break the kiss off.

They’re now properly bonded by the contract, and yet Brighid is still touching her.

“You don’t think we’re done just yet, do you?” Brighid whispers into her ear, and Mòrag shudders, unable to find any reason to refuse. Her flames seem to be glowing just a bit brighter. “Or are you already spent?”

Mòrag shakily grasps one of Brighid’s horns to give her head a weak tug. Everything in her body feels too sensitive. Her voice is pitched and trembling. “Do not… underestimate me…”

“Of course, _Lady Mòrag._ ” The way she says it almost sounds as though Brighid is mocking her, but Mòrag couldn’t really care less at the moment. “I’ll fuck you properly, this time.”

“But your claws—  _ah—_ ”

Her tail. The tapered end is teasing her entrance. Mòrag automatically tries to lower herself upon it without even thinking, too lost in a haze of lust to really care about overexerting herself in her oversensitive state from her first climax, but Brighid is moving her tail away too soon.

“See? You’re already getting the hang of it.”

She tugs at Brighid’s horn again with a frustrated growl.

The back of her head slams against the floor. She— Brighid threw her off, but why— those fangs are at her throat again, and her wrists painfully pinned above her head, legs still spread with Brighid between them. Her head throbs, as do her lower regions, still soaking wet.

“What—“

“I allowed it the first time, but I’ll warn you this time. Don’t pull on my horns, please,” Brighid lightly says.

She’s reminded, once again, that Brighid is indeed a demon that she knows nothing about.

But Mòrag is her _summoner_ and the contract had already been been sealed, more or less. She can’t let Brighid get the better of her now; her pride is at stake. Or, what’s left of her pride. If she can’t control her here, what chance does she have of wielding her powers elsewhere?

She gulps. Brighid is idly licking her throat with that damned forked tongue, knowing fully well that she’s only agitating Mòrag’s impatience and frustration. Again, she struggles, and again, Brighid tightens her grip on her wrists.

“I _command_ you…!”

“You’re _begging_ me,” Brighid corrects her, stroking her hip and leaving light scratches. “Don’t be afraid, my claws are retractable. I’ll go slowly.”

“You’re going easy on me?!” Oh, she sounds offended. Brighid can’t possibly imagine why.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to break my summoner before we’ve even been able to get to know each other.”

That’s oddly sweet, but at the moment, it isn’t worth commenting on. This isn’t even about the contract anymore. She glares. Brighid sighs. Mòrag’s oddly-placed enthusiasm may also be partially her own fault as well, as part of their fresh link as summoner and demon, but she really has been careful… more or less.

No, it’s just Mòrag. She could use more subtlety in her repertoire; she’s just short of outright demanding that Brighid fuck her, probably.

“Get on with it, already!”

“Hm, if you say so.”

Once again, Mòrag’s body is manhandled and repositioned before she can properly react. She finds her face pressed against the floor, _pinned_ to the floor, as her ass is pulled up into the air and her legs kicked apart. At this angle, she realizes in horror, Brighid can see and access everything—

“Comfortable?” Brighid musses her hair, grinding Mòrag’s cheek against the floor. Mòrag can feel her groin pressed up against her ass, and her own arousal slowly dripping down her thighs. She shudders in anticipation.

“I’m _fine_.”

Brighid’s hair tickles her back as she bends over Mòrag to kiss her shoulders. That hand lifts off of her head, but her arms feel too weak to push herself up, and Mòrag resigns herself to this humiliating position as Brighid runs her hands all over her. Whatever they are feel as though they’re made of something rough and more crystalline in nature, both coarse and velvety upon her body. They’re impossibly hot, yet don’t burn. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to thrust backwards against Brighid, strongly hinting that she’d really prefer to move past the foreplay. Or, midplay. Or whatever this is.

“Not a single scar,” Brighid murmurs, straightening up. “Remarkable. Who are you, really?”

“Less talking, please.”

“Are you always so impatient?”

She laughs and shakes her head, digging her claws into Mòrag’s ass, pleased when she yelps and thrusts backwards against her again. Mòrag’s skin, so soft and fair and only marred by the various marks left by Brighid, oddly juxtaposes with the hard muscles she had been feeling earlier. Her best guess would be that Mòrag is a noblewoman who had become a knight. What fantastic luck for Brighid, to come into contract with such a high-standing person. She hums as her thumbs run lower and to Mòrag’s folds.

If she really this impatient, then so be it; Brighid pushes her middle finger in to the second knuckle without any sort of warning, and Mòrag spasms and cries out. Her nails scratch against the floorboards and her back is heaving with her heavy breaths. She cries out again as Brighid experimentally flexes her finger and slides it in further, their hearts pounding in tandem.

Brighid’s flames are roaring. She bites her lip and firmly pushes a second finger in, hardly giving Mòrag any time to adjust to the tight sensation.

Drool is puddling beneath her cheek. Her fingers are _hot_ , that’s the best way Mòrag could describe them, dimly aware of Brighid yanking her head up by her hair to roughly kiss at her neck. She growls, and Mòrag helplessly continues to writhe beneath her as she’s fucked and bitten.

A feeding succubus is a very dangerous thing, she’d read. Very, very dangerous. But is it not the danger that makes them so alluring?

Brighid curls her fingers at an odd angle when Mòrag’s hips begin to dip lower. She gasps in pleasure and pain, lights dancing in her vision while she struggles to keep her hips raised. Something coils around her waist to help support her— that tail, again, snaking around her middle and then sliding against her breasts.

Those lights grow more intense until she can no longer see anything, or even hear, only feel Brighid upon her and around her and inside her, everything about the Empire and her original motives completely forgotten in the moment. Her own moans mingle with Brighid’s steady panting. This is… debasing to everything she stands for, yet all Mòrag can think about is how she wants Brighid to go _harder_.

 _Harder_ , she would cry out, if she could form words out of her quick gasping.

But Brighid seems to get the message nonetheless, so tightly entwined in their link and hungrily feeding off of Mòrag’s lust and pleasure. Her tail unwraps from Mòrag’s body and cracks down on her back like a whip; she shouts out and clenches her fists against the floor, hips moving more insistently off-rhythm against Brighid’s fingers.

_Again._

Again, her tail cracks down. A pair of angry red welts is already forming across Mòrag’s back. Tears well up in the corners of her eyes, but the pain only excites her more than anything else.

She’s reaching her limit. She clenches around Brighid’s fingers and practically sobs, begging her to keep going _harder_ and _again_ and _harder_ as she orgasms for the second time that evening. Incapable of moving and her tongue suddenly feeling too heavy, she lowly moans, and Brighid continues to pump her fingers to prolong the wracking pleasure.

Her consciousness slips away just as Brighid says something she doesn’t fully hear.

 

* * *

 

A dreamless sleep passes. When Mòrag awakens, the first thing she notices is how _sore_ her entire body is, particularly her…

Oh. _Oh_ … of course. The events of the night come rushing back to her and her face immediately burns with the memory. To spend her entire life ignoring those base, primal thoughts to focus on more important things and give in to a succubus’s temptations so easily is an insult to her discipline. But, speaking of the succubus.

Mòrag blearily opens her eyes, and realizes she’s curled up in Brighid’s arms. Brighid is sitting against the wall and holding her to her body in a way that seems nearly protective, her wings forming a loose cocoon around them. She can’t tell if Brighid is asleep or not, but then she speaks.

“Mm, you’ve finally stirred.”

“What…” She rubs her forehead. Her thighs are still uncomfortably sticky and she’s too weak to even try to get off of Brighid’s lap. “What happened?”

“You passed out. It’s a shame; I was hoping for a third round.”

Mòrag looks at her in alarm and Brighid gently places a finger over her lips before she can say anything. “Nothing happened while you were unconscious. I picked you up, sat down, and here we now are.”

She… passed out. Gods.

“It will _not_ happen again,” she says through grit teeth, looking away.

“I have the utmost confidence in you, my summoner.”

Mòrag can’t tell if she’s making fun of her or not. Brighid abruptly stands, still cradling Mòrag in her arms, and stretches out her wings. The room wasn’t terribly spacious to begin with, but how her wings brush against the walls and ceiling is still frighteningly impressive nonetheless.

“Put me down.”

“Are you sure you can stand on your own?”

She’s quiet for a moment, then nods, but Brighid doesn’t set her down just yet. She nuzzles Mòrag’s neck.

“You were delicious.”

“Wh-what?”

“I think I really do quite like you.” Then, finally, she carefully sets Mòrag on her feet. She takes a step back to watch Mòrag wobble on unsteady legs and take an uncertain step, putting a hand to her chin in amusement. “From this day onward I’m yours to command, Lady Mòrag.”

“That— good, as it should be.”

It’s not exactly a dignified moment, having her demon affirm her loyalty while she’s naked and trying very hard not to fall over. Mòrag clears her throat and straightens her back, and winces. Everything just _hurts._ Her legs are still trembling. Brighid makes no movement to help her, so Mòrag reluctantly reaches to her for support.

Brighid pulls her into an embrace, warm but not entirely compassionate. She’s a demon, Mòrag must remind herself, gladly resting her face to the crook of her neck and inhaling her scent. She’s _her_ demon now.

“I would not mind, if you…” She struggles to find the words for it, so she simply kisses Brighid’s jaw instead and hesitantly lets her hands wander over her hips. “If you’re still hungry.”

Brighid chuckles. “You’ve satiated my hunger more than plenty last night. That should last me for another week or so.”

“Ah...”

“I don’t need to be hungry to fuck you, however,” she says, and a shiver runs up Mòrag’s spine. “If you’re so eager.”

 _Gods_ , she can’t tell if it’s Brighid’s influence as a succubus swaying her or something else entirely. Mòrag isn’t certain if she’d like to know the answer. Going along with it feels like the best course of action, but a different part of her keeps whispering to fight against it.

It’d be nice to wait until they’re in the comforts of her private quarters in the Palace with an actual bed, but the floor wasn’t a bad place to do it either.

“Why are you being so complacent?” she asks, still kissing Brighid’s neck and stroking her waist.

“You’re not someone easily trodden on.” There’s some edge of sarcasm in her words, but the rest is genuine. She sighs at the fresh memory of Mòrag bent over on the floor, moaning so obscenely as Brighid fucked her. Oh, how she’d like to see that all over again. Mòrag is mouthing at her neck more insistently now, pulling their bodies closer together.

“And?”

Brighid smirks. “As I said, I’m yours to command.”

Good enough. She takes one of Brighid’s hands and places it over her midriff, sliding it down lower to her crotch. Brighid immediately understands and delicately touches her with the tip of her middle finger, already wet.

“Don’t you have an Empire to save, Mòrag Ladair?”

“One hour, then we depart.”

Her smirk widens, and she pushes Mòrag up against a wall. “As you wish.”


	2. in which Brighid is unaccustomed to human modesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mòrag and Brighid return to Alba Cavanich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now with 6.9% more plot ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The wastelands creep threateningly close to the heart of Mor Ardain. Brighid can see the deterioration of the countryside as they travel through the deserts and to the capital, marveling at all the barren desolation. Husks of abandoned villages dot the land. Withered trees provide no protection from the harsh sunlight. Here and there, monsters prowl, but Mòrag says the monsters are less of a threat than the dwindling resources.

In comparison to the demonic realm, it’s a pleasant journey overall.

Mòrag is quiet for the most part, always keeping at least two paces ahead of Brighid. She thought it foolish for Mòrag to keep her back exposed to her like that, but then it became apparent that she’s been vigilant the entire time, always carefully listening to every footstep and every rustle of her wings. Brighid imagines she should feel somewhat offended that Mòrag doesn’t completely trust her, but she can’t fault her for being understandably cautious.

The nature of their contract doesn’t necessarily guarantee that Brighid wouldn’t be a threat to her own summoner. Not that she’d actually hurt Mòrag, she wasn’t lying when she said she’s already grown fond of her, but she still _is_ a demon.

Demons are fickle creatures. Even Brighid has ingrained instincts she can’t be rid of.

Then— there, they can see the city walls looming in the distance at last. Mòrag quickens her pace; Brighid notices her wince and stumble into a limp for a moment, and she smirks.

That one hour had become two, then three. Frankly, she’s astounded Mòrag’s been able to stand at all after that.

Brighid extends an arm and lightly drags her fingers down the back of her cloak. “You may need some rest.”

“We’re nearly there.”

“Would you collapse at the gates, then?”

That makes Mòrag pause. She _is_ tired— physically. Maybe just a bit mentally, too. Brighid takes a step closer. The sun beats down on them and dusty sand swirls around their ankles when a dry breeze passes. As much as she loves Mor Ardain, she can’t deny that the surrounding landscapes are ugly as all hell. Perhaps as ugly _as_ Hell.

It’s all very… tiring. But she could never stop, especially not now, not when she’s come this far and had brought this creature into their world.

“Take my cloak. You need something to wear before we enter the city.”

Her nose visibly wrinkles at the suggestion. “You want me to wear _clothes._ ”

“Is that a problem?” she asks, even though Mòrag can already deduce the answer herself. “I didn’t ask you, I’m ordering you.”

For a split second, she bares her fangs and Mòrag falters, but then Brighid merely smiles and bows her head. “As you say, Lady Mòrag. Would you like me to conceal my horns and wings too, while I’m at it?”

She sounds sarcastic, but Mòrag nods in earnest. “Please do.”

If she’d known that she’d been summoning a succubus who would shred her clothes, she would have packed more than two outfits for her trip out into the wilderness. Alas, there was no way of knowing _that_ would happen and Mòrag may have had too much confidence in her own aptitude for magic to prepare for the worst.

Not that she’d consider _this_ to be the worst. It really could have been worse, all things considered. For instance, she’s still very much alive.

Brighid mutters something in that unfamiliar language. The air around her shimmers, clearly not from the overbearing heat of the desert sun. Her horns and tail fade and the flames of her limbs are extinguished— her wings inexplicably disappear altogether, and then she looks _human_ , opening just one eye to regard Mòrag’s somewhat shocked reaction. Mòrag wordlessly hands her the cloak. “That’s… better.”

“You prefer this appearance over my natural form?”

Well, she’s certainly still beautiful, but Mòrag is careful to step around the question. “Mind you don’t let the cloak slip open. Perhaps you should wear the hood, as well.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She looks at Brighid, and realizes that she’s seriously asking _why._ “This world is far different from yours. Don’t you know anything about humans?”

“I’m familiar with their anatomy…”

Right. Of course she is. “ _Ahem—_ yes, well, humans value _modesty._ Please keep that in mind.”

“Will do.”

Mòrag has a feeling that Brighid doesn’t entirely get it, but she’d like to return to the Palace as quickly as possible. No point in loitering here and trying to give a lecture to a succubus about all the nuances of Ardainian society— as long as they can quickly and discreetly get through the city without drawing attention.

Which is easier said than done.

They make it past the soldiers stationed at the gates and through a crowded plaza, and this time Mòrag isn’t so foolish as to let her guard down like she had when the summoning ritual had given her a succubus instead of Aegaeon. Irrationally afraid that Brighid would somehow wander off, she stays close to her side, eyes sweeping the streets and every face that passes by. At least Brighid’s concealment spell and the cloak she wears are fulfilling their intended purpose, and Mòrag doesn’t stand out without her usual armor.

Still, every glance that passes their way feels like a threat, and Mòrag tries to keep her head down. Being recognized would only create more trouble than necessary. But none of the glances linger and the crowds thin as they leave the busier part of the commercial district.

Maybe they will make it, then. Maybe they can get past the bridge and into the Palace and to the safety of Mòrag’s private quarters before—

— _Speaking of private quarters_ , that most definitely is an invisible tail coiling around her thigh.

Mòrag bites back a startled noise and tries to swat at the tail as it tightens its hold on her leg. She’d been so busy focusing on their surroundings that she’d failed to notice how tense Brighid was the whole time. There’s a shopkeeper curiously looking their way from his stall; she grabs Brighid’s shoulder and steers her into the somewhat obscured cover of a narrow alleyway, limping. Her entire body still aches, and now she can feel that now-familiar rush of heat spreading beneath her skin as Brighid does her… succubus thing.

Why here?!

“ _Why now?!_ ” she hisses, yanking down the hood to see Brighid’s face properly.

“I’m hungry,” is all she says, pushing Mòrag up against the rough bricks behind her.

Her head is already spinning. She wills herself to stay alert, to fight against the heavy haze of heat settling down upon her like a thick blanket, coaxing her to relax and let Brighid’s hands wander. No—  _no_ , she grabs Brighid’s wrists, and turns her head to the side as Brighid leans in, her breath tantalizingly sweet.

“But we had just—” Again, the words evade her, and she struggles to even whisper. “This morning! Did you not say it should have lasted you for a week?!”

The cloak slips open, just enough to expose more than what would be considered appropriate. The wall is unforgiving and rough against her back, but Brighid is so _soft_ pressed up to her, the heat emanating off her skin burning through Mòrag’s clothes, and the thought of being left undressed _in public_ keeps her awake and fighting. Still, the hands that had been struggling to push Brighid away instead claw at her back, pulling her closer before Mòrag even realizes what she’s doing.

“I should have mentioned,” Brighid purrs, lips moving against her cheek, “how much energy it takes to maintain this appearance.”

She has to be lying. It hasn’t even been half an hour since they had entered the city. Mòrag thinks—  _tries_ to think, as Brighid’s lips move over hers and she automatically kisses back like it’s already a reflex, heart thumping far too fast and the knee between her legs awfully distracting. Mòrag realizes, then, that she must have been gradually siphoning energy from Brighid the entire time (ever since last night, when the pact was formed) without either of them being aware.

That’s the best explanation as to why she’s been able to walk after all… that, anyway.

Or perhaps Brighid _was_ aware.

Poring over textbooks and tomes clearly wasn’t enough to prepare her for being contracted to a demon. Experience begets wisdom, she bitterly thinks, frantically groaning into the messy kiss as Brighid’s claws trail down her sides. Yes, that surely must have been it. How careless, how _foolish_ , and shameful for Mòrag, as Brighid’s summoner.

“ _Not here_ —“ she finally manages to gasp, stopping herself from trying to grab at one of Brighid’s concealed horns. “We can’t—“

“You’re right, it’s a bit too cramped here for my tastes. Let’s go do it in the streets.”

To her horror, Brighid begins to tug her back to the entrance of the alleyway, and Mòrag digs her heels into the ground. “What?! No—!”

“But you just said, _not here…?_ ”

She’s so… blasè. So blasè that it seems like Brighid genuinely doesn’t see why having sex in broad daylight in the streets would be a problem. Unbelievable. Mòrag pulls her further down the alley until she’s certain no one would notice them, her heart racing.

“People do not do—  _this_ , in public! Can it not wait until we reach the palace?!”

“If you don’t mind me lifting the concealment spell.”

Of course she minds. She can also tell that Brighid is beginning to run out of patience; her words are polite, but her actions aggressive. She can’t be _that_ hungry, surely, but Mòrag really wouldn’t know.

The thought of doing it _here_ …

As opposed to drawing attention if Brighid were to reveal her true form…

… When she weighs between the two while Brighid roughly feels up her body like an appetizer, the choice is obvious. She can’t believe she’s doing this. She really can’t believe it. She winces in shame and takes a step back against the wall, barely able to hold Brighid at bay for the moment.

“… Make it quick. And I won’t be taking my clothes off, is that clear?” Her voice shakes, her breathing unsteady. Brighid smiles and nods, her eyes opening to narrow slits as she moves in.

Mòrag said she wouldn’t take her clothes off, but _why_ must they feel so stifling? It isn’t even nearly as bad as her usual uniform, yet right now it couldn’t feel more constricting as Brighid pushes a hand down the front of her pants. She sighs out loud, hips already rolling against Brighid’s touch, the memories of last night still fresh and sending throbbing pangs of lust through her gut already.

Brighid strokes her in small circles, pleased with how wet she already is. It’s so sadly, painfully obvious that Mòrag had never felt this kind of pleasure in her lifetime with how eagerly she seems to acquiesce to Brighid’s advances so far.

Her panting becomes heavier with each passing second, eyelids fluttering. She slings her arms around Brighid’s neck and thrusts her hips again, letting out a groan— a cue to hurry it up, to do _something_ , and Brighid shrugs. Her hand withdraws from her pants, much to Mòrag’s vocal frustration, and she grabs Mòrag’s hips and hoists her off the ground. Her legs automatically lock around Brighid’s waist.

Excitement teases her. Brighid’s tail is creeping down Mòrag’s pants to replace her hand, lingering over her crotch before going further to feel her soaked arousal. It’s _there_ , touching her— Mòrag grits her teeth, still mentally pleading with Brighid to move things along— she hears her, and the tapered end of her tail pushes inside.

It’s an entirely different sensation from Brighid’s fingers. Her tail curves and twists, squirming and stroking so languidly that it’s almost _too_ slow, but then— 

“B- _Brighid—_ ” she cries, clinging to her for dear life, abruptly hitting her climax without warning; all her muscles tremble and Brighid’s name slips past her lips once more, uncaring that she’s loud enough for someone to definitely hear. She moves to let her down, but Mòrag tightens her hold and braces herself against the wall.

“Keep… keep going,” she pants.

Brighid smirks, already feeling more invigorated than she had been earlier. “Well, that was certainly fast. Was it _too_ quick for your liking?”

Yes. But. “Take more… just in case…”

Sure, it’s a good enough excuse. But Brighid can see it in her hazy, half-lidded eyes, and hear it in her choked little whimpers and _smell_ it all over her, the sweet smell of pure lust. It stirs Brighid’s appetite like nothing other. Mòrag had been so stern earlier, focused on making it to Hardhaigh without incident, and now she’s gladly consenting to being fucked out here. _Encouraging_ it, in fact.

So Brighid moves her tail, sliding it further into Mòrag— _she’s tight._ Mòrag bites down between her shoulder and neck to muffle her cry, and Brighid hisses, but she _needs_ to bite down otherwise she’ll _scream_ and someone would surely find them.

But somehow, the thought of being discovered only further arouses Mòrag. The tail continues to move inside her, feeling and rubbing in ways beyond what a couple fingers could do, moving in deeper and brushing up against something—  _oh_ , she writhes against Brighid, hips rolling, unable to hold still or keep quiet, praying her tail would touch that spot just once more.

It does. Then again, and again, and she can no longer hold in her frantic moaning and gasping; Brighid obligingly presses a hand over her mouth, whispering a small _shhh_ , her eyes sparkling with delight. White lights explode in Mòrag’s vision as she comes again.

But… Brighid isn’t stopping. Her tail is still pumping in and out Mòrag with a hungry relentlessness. This is exactly what happened last night, was it not? But the thought itself, of being fucked to the point of unconsciousness, suddenly seems so tempting and Mòrag gladly keeps her legs spread and locked around Brighid’s waist, but— they’re _still_ in public, and this can’t stand. She won’t be able to stand, at this rate.

Suddenly, she remembers. They still need to get to the palace and speak to the Emperor.

“That’s… enough…!” She gasps, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead and her clothes in a chaotic disarray. She moans as the tail slows down and instead languidly turns inside her, twisting and thrusting at a slower pace to ease her down, and Brighid kisses her cheek as she carefully lets Mòrag down on her own feet.

Her arms are still wrapped around Brighid. Good thing, that, because she surely would’ve fallen without that support when Brighid finally pulls her tail out and out of Mòrag’s pants. At some point, Brighid must have lost her grasp on part of the concealment spell; Mòrag can see her tail as it flicks some of the wetness off before it shimmers out of sight once more.

She holds onto Brighid, trembling like a newborn Eks, struggling to catch her breath and reconcile with the dizzying fact that she had just had sex outside. In a public area. Out of sight and away from the main streets, but a public area nonetheless. Brighid patiently strokes her back, waiting for Mòrag to compose herself.

“You’re a generous one,” she laughs. “And so easy to please, if I may say.”

It sounds like an insult. Was it an insult? Well, whatever. She finally lets go of Brighid and clears her throat, fastening the cloak closed around her before making some attempt to straighten out her own clothes.

She… didn’t think this out thoroughly enough. Her pants are uncomfortably wet now.

“That was…” But it doesn’t really _need_ a comment, and the amused smile Brighid is giving her makes her pause. She wills her heart to stop beating so fast (it doesn’t work) and tugs at her collar. “… Let’s move along. We’ve wasted enough time.”

“As you say, Lady Mòrag.”

 

* * *

 

Special Inquisitor Mòrag returns to Hardhaigh Palace in rather disheveled state and with a strange guest in tow. The guards take note of her weary glares and say nothing as they let her and her guest through to the elevators that would take them to the throne room where the Emperor awaits.

She fiddles with her clothes as they stand in silence in the elevator. Brighid watches her, at ease and nearly sleepy now that she’s been fed.

“I had already disclosed my plans to His Majesty. He knows to expect a demon in my company,” Mòrag says, examining her reflection in the glass and carefully smoothing down disheveled strands of hair. “I will not, however, be introducing you as a _succubus_. You will be a dragon.”

Brighid, somewhat affronted, places her hands on her hips and allows the cloak to slip open ever so slightly. Mòrag quickly closes it back up, avoiding eye contact. “Why can’t he know I’m a succubus?”

“You ask too many questions,” she mumbles. “ _Please_ don’t expose yourself in front of His Majesty.”

“Hah. I’m a demon, not a savage. I know how to conduct myself before royalty.”

Mòrag coughs into a fist.

The elevator stops moving and the doors hiss open. There are no guards to greet them, Brighid notes— how odd, considering the tight security on the ground floor. She waits for Mòrag to step out first before following, sniffing at the faded scents of dust and parchment and steel, hundreds of years of history layered into the carpet and walls.

And— Mòrag. She can still smell _Mòrag,_ as she walks ahead of her. A smile creeps across her face as they approach the end of the room, then it quickly drops into a puzzled frown.

A young boy sits upon the throne. He quickly gets up to his feet just as Mòrag kneels; she glances at Brighid for a second with a sharp glare and she obligingly kneels as well, just to play along.

“Please, stand,” he says to them both. “Welcome back, Special Inquisitor.”

He… hardly even comes up to Mòrag’s shoulders. The Emperor is a _child._ Suddenly, what Mòrag had been saying before makes so much more sense.

“Your Majesty.” She bows her head and crosses a hand over her chest.

The Emperor turns to Brighid. She stares back, though her eyes remain closed. “This is Aegaeon?”

Brighid almost laughs. _Almost._ Rather than correcting the Emperor herself, she waits for Mòrag to explain.

“No. Something…” Mòrag winces. “Something went awry in the summoning ritual. I’m not entirely certain what had happened, but this dragon demon appeared in Aegaeon’s place. Her name is Brighid.”

“A dragon?”

“Indeed. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.” Sarcasm drips ever so slightly at the edge of her voice, but if the Emperor notices, he gives no indication that he had. “Your Special Inquisitor is quite the woman. I’m pleased to be in the service of such an honorable summoner.”

“Regardless of whatever miscalculation I had made in the summoning, her strength will still be a great boon to us.”

The Emperor looks somewhat uneasy now, but he smooths his expression over and nods. “Mòrag… you look tired. The past few days must have taken a great toll on you.”

“I— I’m fine.”

“Go rest. Then, I’d like to speak with you again. Alone, if you will.”

His eyes flicker to Brighid for a split second, his unease still hanging around him like a fog. Brighid merely smiles. _He could sense Mòrag’s lie, couldn’t he?_ Yes, that seems likely— child or not, he’s still an Emperor, and not even a figurehead for other politicians to push around like a chess piece. That much is apparent.

“… Of course, your Majesty.” Mòrag finally acquiesces. She bows and the two turn to leave.

As they walk away, the Emperor calls after her, “Please take care, my dear sister.”

_Sister?_

Oh, she's  _royalty._

With their backs now turned, Brighid’s smile widens, exposing sharp fangs.

 

* * *

 

Mòrag’s private suite is as grandiose in size as the rest of the Palace, but surprisingly bare in decor. The moment she closes the door, Brighid throws the cloak off and releases the concealment spell, unfurling her wings with a relieved sigh.

“I’m not fond of _clothes_ ,” she says with distaste.

“A shame. You’ll have to get used to them.”

She’s averting her gaze away, briskly walking to the bedroom. Brighid follows. Mòrag tries to busy herself with rummaging around for a change of clothes, but she’s clearly too flustered to stop her hands from fumbling. As she watches her move around the room, Brighid sits on the edge of the bed and lightly runs her palms over the sheets. Silk. Mmh.

“Mind you don’t burn anything,” Mòrag snaps.

“You seem tense.”

Silence stretches between them. Mòrag’s brows furrow and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, slightly wincing at the dull ache that lingers between her legs. She _is_ tense. Why wouldn’t she be?

“I’m… sorry.”

Brighid actually looks mildly surprised. “For?”

“Draining you.” She puts a hand to her forehead, looking down at the floor. “If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have needed to feed again so soon.”

“That’s just the nature of the relationship between summoner and demon— we feed off each other, to fuel our own strengths. Didn’t you already know that?”

Mòrag gets access to Brighid’s vitality and demonic hellfire. Brighid gets to fuck Mòrag. The benefits seem to weigh about the same. It would have been extremely different with Aegaeon, but then again, those kinds of things tend to vary from demon to demon. She’d read that somewhere, she recalls.

“Th— of course.” But. “I should have been more cautious.”

Her apology is so sincere that it’s almost funny, but in the end it’s just endearing. Brighid scoots back on the bed and lies down against the soft pillows, folding her arms behind her head and carefully adjusting her wings. She can’t tell if Mòrag is that simple, or if it’s just her nobility. “I have a feeling that you don’t get many opportunities to loosen up. Feel free to take whatever you need from me. But in return, I do expect you to provide for me as well.”

“Such are the terms of our contract,” she flatly says.

The corner of Brighid’s mouth twitches. “I’m surprised you could say that with such a straight face, after everything I’ve done to you so far.”

Once again, her composure cracks and that fluster returns to the tips of her fingers. Mòrag clutches a clean set of clothes and quickly moves to the door. She clears her throat and declares, “I am going to the baths, then I am meeting with His Majesty. You will wait here until I return. Understood?”

Brighid can only laugh at that earnestness. “Roger that, Lady Mòrag.”

Then she’s gone, and Brighid is left in the emptiness of her bedroom. The sun is beginning to set low, casting a gentle glow across the carpet and over the bed, kissing her skin with its warmth. The stark difference between _here_ and _there_ is astounding, even if Mor Ardain isn’t much more than a wasteland.

The windows stretch from the floor to the high ceiling. Mòrag would probably chide her for standing in front of the glass in full view, but the city is so far below that Brighid doubts anyone would even notice her should they look up. She looks down, absentmindedly curling her tail around her wrist.

Alba Cavanich is _ugly_. That’s all it is. It’s an ugly sprawl of metal and smog and steel and the tiny dots of people moving about the streets. But… Mòrag wants to save it, and protect those people, so surely there must be more that she can’t see from high up.

Just as Mòrag has yet to learn all that she needs to know about her kind, Brighid supposes she’s about as ignorant of humans. She shakes her head and turns away from the window, climbing back onto the bed and curling up in a nest of silken sheets and pillows to wait for Mòrag’s return.


	3. in which Mòrag learns to indulge herself a little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brighid has a unique trick up her sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy (belated) birthday to a certain friend!!! i'm so grateful to have met you.
> 
> the smut is at the end of the chapter if u wanna scroll down lmao

There Mòrag sits upon a large reading chair in a corner of the bedroom, fast asleep, her head lolling to the side and her arms loosely folded together. Her awkward posture suggests she hadn’t intended to doze off. Truly, her diligence is to be reckoned with.

Brighid frowns to herself, twisting her tail around her wrist as the minutes slowly trickle by, so unbearably slow. Awakening Mòrag would seem like such a… rude thing to do. She’d been watching the steady rising and falling of her chest for some time now, in no real rush to disturb her. It isn’t terribly exciting, but it does give Brighid some time to ponder over her new situation.

Day three. So far, so good.

Mòrag eventually stirs. She’s wincing at the aches in her neck and shoulders and her joints practically creak as she brings her hands up to her face. Brighid smiles and climbs off the bed to tread over, her bare feet silent upon the soft carpet.

“You certainly seem well-rested.”

Mòrag blearily rubs at her eyes. She squints at Brighid as if she’d momentarily forgotten who she is. “What time is it…?”

“It will be lunchtime soon, I’d wager.”

For a while Mòrag says nothing, only breathing into her fist in deep thought as she fights off the vestiges of sleep. No, she’s not really well-rested at all. Her talk with the Emperor had extended longer than she had expected and she had then spent the better part of the night attending to other things.

“Did you sleep well, Brighid?” Her tone is stiffly polite. Brighid takes note of her averted gaze and takes another step closer until she’s nearly upon Mòrag, her wings extending and curving over her.

“Yes, thank you. Your bed is remarkably comfortable.”

Mòrag tries hard not to flinch when Brighid leans over. She’s sinking far, far back into the soft cushioning of the armchair, head completely turned to the side to avoid staring at what’s directly in front of her face.

Brighid notes the deep reddish hue splashed across her ears and cheek with a note of amusement.

“Is something the matter, Lady Mòrag?”

“There’s little point in teasing me like this…” For the gods’ sake, she’s practically being straddled at this point.

“Mmh, perhaps.”

“Would you allow me to get up, then?”

This time, Mòrag does flinch when Brighid brushes the back of her hand against her flushed cheek. She exhales, maybe a bit too loudly, when Brighid finally backs off. She stands up too quickly. Her vision swims as the blood rushes from her head.

“You could have slept with me instead of subjecting yourself to that chair. It’s your own bed, after all.”

“I didn’t want to bother you. You were fast asleep by the time I had returned, last night.”

“Or, were you afraid of what could have happened if I had woken up?”

Mòrag only gets to savor her personal space for only a split second before Brighid is right in front of her again. She shivers. Her breath is warm against her ear, and her body so _soft_ pushed up to her. Mòrag’s throat is dry with the thoughts frantically swarming in circles through her head, that blurry haze of fitful sleep swiftly being replaced by a different kind of fog, clawed hands moving down her back—

“W— wait,” she manages to choke out.

To both her relief and disappointment, Brighid actually does let go of her and steps back.

Shirking her duties is out of the question here— _as much as she would like—_ no, there’s no part of her— _but perhaps_. What? No. Her head hurts. Her everything hurts. Must have been from sleeping upright in that chair… and the events of the previous day. And the day before that. Mòrag rubs at her temples with a somewhat pained frown. She brushes past Brighid and to the armoire, still refusing to look directly at her.

“Last night, I thought to get more clothes for you to wear. That cloak alone won’t do,” Mòrag says, voice still somewhat unsteady. Brighid raises one brow. Her mouth sets into an unamused slant, which Mòrag doesn’t see with her back turned.

“Oh? You shouldn’t have,” she says, the sarcasm failing to find its hook.

Mòrag pulls out several outfits, setting them aside on the bed. “It was a necessity. No need to thank me.”

“Really. You shouldn’t have.”

“Are any of these to your liking? Admittedly, fashion isn’t one of my strong suits…”

“Let me see.”

She steps aside to allow Brighid to look over the selection of clothes. Most of them are dresses. No doubt Mòrag had kept her wings and tail into consideration when she picked these out, but there’s little accounting for her taste. They’re not _bad_ , but they’re just rather plain. They’re clothes. Brighid picks one up at random and holds it up, and Mòrag nods in approval.

“Go ahead, try it on.”

While Brighid scrutinizes the dress, Mòrag turns back to the armoire. Maybe she bought too many last night. Ah, well.

Then, there’s the sound of tearing fabric.

She whips around, alarmed. Brighid is wearing the dress… sort of. More like, it’s hanging off of her. She’d torn through it almost clean down the front, leaving one of her breasts exposed. As Mòrag gapes in disbelief, Brighid places one hand on her hip and frowns at her expression.

“You— that’s not how you—“ Mòrag runs her hands over her face. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“I did say you shouldn’t have.”

“Please, Brighid, if you are to live with me you _must_ wear clothes!”

“I can always use a ward to conceal my presence from others,” Brighid says, and just to demonstrate, she waves a hand and completely vanishes from Mòrag’s view just for a second. When she reappears, she’s no longer frowning. “Although, that ward in particular uses quite a bit of my energy, even compared to the charm I used to disguise myself as a human. I’d say feeding from you once in the mornings and once in the evenings should suffice for that.”

Mòrag slowly sits down on the edge of the bed and stares down at her lap. She’ll die. She’s going to die. This succubus is going to fuck the life right out of her.

It’s not quite the honorable death she’d always imagined she would have.

This is turning out to be more troublesome than she had thought. Are succubi always supposed to be— well, _of course they are_ , it’s just what Brighid is. Architect, maybe her wits were already fucked out of her. Mòrag can’t think straight. She needs to think. She could always keep Brighid in her room and out of sight, but… that’s far out the question. The fact that that notion had even passed through her head makes her gut curl in shame.

Brighid is trying on more clothes and ripping through each outfit with her claws. At this point, Mòrag can’t even tell if she’s doing it on purpose or not.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, somehow, unbelievably, Brighid settles on a backless dress that allows her wings to remain unrestrained. It’s not much, and she’ll still need to be cautious outside of Mòrag’s room, but it’s enough to put Mòrag at ease for the moment.

News of the Special Inquisitor’s new… partner, still hasn’t made the rounds. Eventually she will need to reveal her pact with the demon, seeing as how she intends to utilize Brighid’s power in the likely war with Uraya, but for now, keeping things under wraps seems like the best course of action. Especially the part where Brighid is a _succubus._ Mòrag’s reputation of honor and dignity may very well be ruined in one fell swoop if people learned about the exact nature of their relationship.

The underground test hangar beneath the palace is large enough to temporarily house the entire population of Alba Cavanich should an emergency ever strike the city. But, of course, its primary usage is for storing and assessing military weaponry. It’s also the perfect arena for Mòrag to acquaintance herself with Brighid’s abilities and train with her in private. In… private. No, she really needs to clear her thoughts. She needs to fight.

The middle of the hangar had been cleared to give them plenty of space. No one should be bothering them for a couple hours. Brighid doesn’t seem particularly interested in sparring, though; she’s looking elsewhere, idly scraping the floor with her tail.

“ _Brighid._ ” Mòrag clears her throat. “If we could get started?”

“Hm? Ah, of course.”

She smiles at Mòrag. Mòrag waits expectantly, one hand held out to her.

“Your weapon?”

“I am the weapon.”

She blinks. “I… don’t quite understand.”

A laugh. “What exactly are you expecting, Lady Mòrag?”

“The textbooks…” Ugh, why does she always have to feel so helpless in front of Brighid? Somewhat blandly, she recites: “A demon shares its energy with a human it has formed a pact with. Using that demonic energy, the human’s physical capabilities are magnified tenfold and he or she is capable of wielding the elemental powers unique to that demon, along with its weapon of choice.”

“That does sound about right.”

“I _am_ right. I was already taking your energy before, was I not?”

“That was different.”

Her jaw twitches. It almost seems like Brighid is being difficult on purpose. “Different in what way?”

“Think of it like this,” Brighid says, igniting the tips of her fingers. “Your body has a limit to what it can handle. In terms of vessels and volume, you would be… a teacup. I, on the other hand, am a tankard. You can’t contain my fire; if you tried to take all I can offer, or if I tried to give you everything I have, you’d spill over. You would die.”

“You vastly underestimate me.”

“No. You underestimate _me._ ”

Brighid’s teeth flash. A shudder runs up Mòrag’s spine, but she stands her ground, staring resolutely ahead at her… eyelids. _Why_ must she keep her eyes closed. Mòrag’s trying to make eye contact to assert herself, for the Architect’s sake.

“If you intend to use my power to save your Empire, then so be it. However, _I_ will be the one fighting. All you need to do is replenish my energy for me whenever necessary.”

“You’d… reduce me to…” Suddenly, it’s difficult to breathe. “I am the Special Inquisitor! The most powerful warrior in Mor Ardain!”

“Yes, and I had the Special Inquisitor on the floor beneath me, bent over and moaning like an animal…” Brighid is leaning in close before Mòrag can react. She whispers into her ear and runs her claws up the front of her uniform. “I had the most powerful warrior in Mor Ardain pinned against a wall, weak and begging to have me inside her…”

She can’t breathe. Shit. Shit. Damn. She can’t move, either. Brighid’s wings are stretching out and she can see her tail rising in the corner of her vision, and Mòrag _fights_ to keep her wits about her. A strange heat is beginning to pool in her guts, already familiar enough for her to realize what’s going on.

But all she can manage is a strangled noise. “I… I was not begging…”

Technically.

“Do you really believe you can handle my hellfire, Lady Mòrag?”

No.

“ _Yes._ ”

“Then, there is another way.”

Her wings are closing around them. They seem larger than before, blocking out the lights above. The heat in Mòrag’s stomach is spreading but it’s different now, burning just beneath her skin, but then she realizes it’s _Brighid_ who’s burning. Her vision goes black but her consciousness remains— she can feel and hear everything, from the fires scorching every inch of her being to Brighid’s harsh whispers in both ears.

Both ears?

What happens next doesn’t feel quite real. Brighid is no longer touching her— she’s gone, but she isn’t gone, because Mòrag can still feel her flames and her whispering had become a deafening hiss that drowns out her own thoughts, and she tries to double over to clutch her head but she can’t. She can’t move. Everything is burning. Her head hurts, but she can’t lift her arms. When she rapidly blinks, she thinks she can make out the outlines of the weaponry and machinery at the other end of the hangar, but everything is washed in a searing shade of blue that only makes her headache worse the more she tries to focus.

She feels herself shouting out in pain. Just as quickly as she tries to yell, her throat constricts and her voice goes silent.

“ _This is how you properly wield a demon._ ”

_I am the weapon._

“Demonic possession—?“ she chokes out, and she finally has control over herself. Her knees hit the floor. Brighid’s voice is a cacophony in her head. She’s still burning. Oh, Architect, she’s burning.

It’s as though her head would split open. When Mòrag gingerly brings a hand up to her temple, it bumps against something hard— a horn. Horns. That’s where the pain had come from. She squeezes her eyes shut and opens them, and at least her vision is back to normal (but everything is still slightly tinged with blue).

“Get out of my body—!” She growls and thrashes on the floor. Brighid laughs in her head.

“ _Patience, Lady Mòrag. I haven’t completely settled in yet. The first time is always the most difficult, but I guarantee each possession will be easier than the last._ ”

Brighid strangles a scream from escaping their shared throat as her wings erupt from Mòrag’s back and through her uniform, tearing through the fabric just as easily as Brighid had torn up all those clothes that morning. Through the quick pain, Mòrag is able to grab onto her own panic and drag herself back to the stark reality of the situation.

She’ll die.

_”You won’t die.”_

Oh. Of course Brighid can read her thoughts.

_”As long as I maintain partial control.”_

No. No.

_”I promise I won’t hurt you anymore.”_

She wants to scream. She trusts Brighid. Why does she trust Brighid?

_”I’ll protect you, no matter what.”_

Her words ring so sincerely.

_”Stand up, Lady Mòrag.”_

She stands, and she can feel Brighid gently correcting her balance as she adjusts to the unfamiliar weight of the wings on her back. Brighid is then slipping to the back of her consciousness to allow Mòrag to gather her bearings on her own. Still sort of in a shocked daze, she stumbles to a piece of machinery that gleams bright steel and slams her palms against it, to see herself in the reflection and to see if what she had been dreading is there.

It’s… her own face, completely unchanged. Her eyes glint with Brighid’s fire and the horns are not her own, but it’s her own face and her own body, for the most part. Brighid is suspiciously silent as Mòrag stares at herself in the steel panel, unsure if she should be relieved or what.

The steel is beginning to melt beneath her palms. Mòrag quickly backs away in alarm.

Brighid is gently probing at the frontmost edges of her consciousness. She can sense her at the fringe, upon the cusp of seizing control, but an inexplicable wave of soothing assurance brings Mòrag’s pulse down to a calm beat. Her hands are on fire. That’s fine. The fire is… captivating. She flexes Brighid’s wings— their wings? And her feet lift off the ground, just for a second, as she stares, transfixed, at her blazing hands.

_”How do you feel?”_

“As if I could take on an entire army alone.”

In her mind, Brighid smiles.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t remember much of the finer details of what happens, only the exhilaration and drunken rush of energy that fueled her as she wreaked havoc in the hangar, and then Brighid extinguishing the flames as Mòrag snarled in protest. When she comes to, she’s lying on her bed (when did Brighid even bring her back? _How_ did she bring her back?). A strange sensation of emptiness throbs through Mòrag’s entire being.

Brighid is sitting at the other end of the room, legs crossed and hands neatly folded together. She’s wearing a different dress now.

“You certainly had fun.”

She… wants Brighid back within her. Inside her. No, wait— damn it. She’s just disoriented, that’s all. That’s all. Mòrag touches the sides of her head, slowly blinking at Brighid.

“… Apologies, if I got carried away.”

“There’s no harm in indulging yourself once in a while.”

That word, _indulgence_ , drips through her mind like sweet honey, and Mòrag finds herself climbing off the bed and approaching Brighid with staggered, shaky steps. She stands before her, unsure, and Brighid merely smiles that infuriatingly patient and knowing smile of hers.

“Do you… need to feed now?”

“I’m quite alright, thank you.”

 _Liar_ , Mòrag wants to accuse her, but then she’d only be revealing her own… whatever this feeling is. She closes her eyes and tries to remember how it felt, but a memory can never compare to the actual experience, no matter how sharply defined it is.

“If you’re hungry, go ahead.” Brighid’s voice sounds so far away. Hungry? What does she mean, _hungry?_ Her stomach feels fine. Mòrag had eaten before they left for the hangar. She feels a bit weak and she can’t stop thinking about the weight of Brighid’s wings on her own back and the heat of Brighid’s flames on her own hands, but she’s fine. Completely fine.

Before she even knows it, she’s already sitting back on the bed, slowly removing the pieces of her uniform while never tearing her eyes away from Brighid. Brighid’s tongue darts out between her lips, and she rests her chin upon her fist in observation.

And she watches with that never-changing smile as Mòrag reclines back and allows her hand to wander between her legs, completely in full view. She leans forward slightly and Mòrag’s breathing becomes the only sound in the room, slowly stroking herself, desperately trying to satiate that strange hunger she was left with when Brighid withdrew from her body.

Soft and wet sounds join the noises of Mòrag’s heavy panting. She already has a middle finger inside herself to the second joint, trying to get into a steady rhythm of fucking herself, but. It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough and knowing that is the worst part of it yet.

Still, she can only think of Brighid. Brighid, nudging the movements of her body from within. Brighid, filling her head with her silky whispers. Brighid, promising that she’d protect her.

Brighid, standing above her, watching intently as she masturbates with her trembling hand. Mòrag’s numb to the shame and mortification, too caught up in the throes of her hunger to care or even slow down. Her toes curl and her hips slightly raise off the bed as she quickens her pace, her thumb brushing over her clit. She should care, she shouldn’t care— Brighid is _watching_ and listening, completely focused on the raunchy display Mòrag is putting on.

She could nearly cry from both relief and frustration as Brighid finally climbs onto the bed and over her, firmly taking her wrist and pulling that hand away from herself, wet, and she waits for Brighid to… do anything, _“Please,”_ she whispers.

“Desperation is a beautiful look on you, Lady Mòrag,” she murmurs, stroking Mòrag’s disheveled hair and lying down on top of her, their bodies pressing tightly together. Mòrag quickly wraps her arms around her.

Her arms close around nothing. Then, there’s fire. It sears her, already recognizable enough for Mòrag to know what’s happening without that shock and panic from before. Brighid was right— it’s easier after the first. This time, Mòrag welcomes the scorching wave that rushes through her body, convulsing and turning over to allow the wings to split through her back.

All at once, she goes still. Her body won’t move.

_”Brighid?”_

That was… her own voice, in her own head? She can’t even move her eyes. Then Mòrag is sitting up, looking down over her body and at the glistening wetness smeared across her inner thighs.

Brighid had seized control. But somehow, Mòrag doesn’t even care about that. She _welcomes_ it, and settles back within her own mind without putting up so much as a feigned effort of resistance against the demon. She lies down. No— Brighid lies down, holding a hand above her face, flexing her fingers experimentally. Mòrag’s body is so warm.

“Do you trust me, Lady Mòrag?”

She really shouldn’t. Demons are… demons. But Brighid is already touching her— herself, themselves? And leisurely stroking her arms and breasts and face as if she means to memorize every inch of flesh and muscle while she’s in possession, and… it’s just kind of weird, being able to feel all that without actually being in control of the motions, but Mòrag readily answers.

_”With my life.”_

Brighid moves her hands up her body and lightly squeezes her breasts. Already, Mòrag is tugging and pleading within her consciousness, and Brighid arches her back and moans in Mòrag’s voice as she fondles herself.

 _”Do that again,”_ Mòrag thinks. Her throat would be dry if it were within her control.

“You have quite the ego,” Brighid laughs breathlessly, shifting her hips and spreading her legs. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, still touching herself. Mòrag says something in protest, she wants to be able to _see_ , but she quickly shuts up when Brighid moans out loud again. “Enjoying the sound of your own voice, are we?”

_”It— it is different, in your intonation.”_

“But it’s still yours.” Eyes still closed, she runs her hands down across the flat muscles of her stomach, feeling the jut of her hipbones, tracing the slight dip where her waist meets her thighs, drawing ever closer to her crotch. She breathes steadily and slowly. In their mind, Mòrag pants like a parched beast.

_”The walls are soundproof.”_

“Duly noted.”

Mòrag feels her own mouth curving into a smirk, then her own fingers working at her own wetness, stroking and teasing and drawing a noise from her own throat she didn’t even know she could make. But it’s Brighid making those noises… technically? But it’s still her own body. Her wings flex, pushing her back off the bed as she moans more loudly, using one hand to toy with her clit while the other one moves over it to ease a finger into herself— into Mòrag.

Shocks of pleasure lance through both of them, more into Mòrag, and Brighid has to divert part of her attention to keep Mòrag restrained as she mentally thrashes and writhes. She’s fighting back.

“Enjoying the ride?” she breathes out, pumping her finger in deeper. Another low moan. Mòrag wants to come. She won’t allow it. Not yet.

Her hand, the one that had been rubbing and playing with her clit, moves away and lifts up to her mouth. Brighid hears Mòrag sort of cry out, not in protest but in sheer confusion and lust, as Brighid takes two wet fingers between her lips and sucks on them, tasting Mòrag, still fucking her (herself? No, just her) at a leisurely pace. Her tongue swirls over and around the digits, her breath hot and her moans infuriatingly soft. Mòrag is pleading, again. _Louder. Harder._ No. Not while she’s in control.

_”Isn’t it frustrating for you as well?!”_

“Haha…” As she laughs, she adds a second finger into herself and slightly curls them, rubbing her inner walls. “Did you forget what I am, already?”

_”Wh— what?”_

“Your lust is my energy. I could do this _all day._ ” A horrid grin spreads across her face as she pumps her fingers faster still, her voice breaking out into quick gasping. The hand she had just been licking moves over her breast and she squeezes a nipple, roughly playing with Mòrag’s body.

But she knows. She knows as infuriating as this is, Mòrag is a completely willing prisoner in her own body. She can feel her excitement and exhilaration and all that arousing indignation— Mòrag is entirely enjoying this, even if the sensible part of her tells her she shouldn’t be. Brighid arches her back again and whimpers, the rhythm of her fingers quickening. She feels just as much as Mòrag. It’s still…

_”I- I want— I need to—“_

Brighid bares her teeth at the ceiling, and pushes her fingers in up to the knuckles. “Louder, Lady Mòrag.”

_”I want to feel you come.”_

This time, Brighid is the one to momentarily lose her composure. Her fingers go still and her eyes snap open in confusion. “What did you say?”

She grits her teeth in surprise as the pumping resumes— Mòrag had— how? What did she even _say?_ They’re tangled together and struggling and she can’t even tell who’s fucking who anymore, but Mòrag’s senses are still foggy with lust and Brighid is… Brighid can’t fathom why she had declared such a thing.

But she already knows, because all of Mòrag’s thoughts and feelings are all laid bare in her own head. They’re both panting and groaning then one of them is screaming— the sound is definitely Mòrag’s voice, at least, as she finally climaxes, searing pleasure burning through her. Through them. Through both of them. Her fingers continue to weakly move as she slowly eases herself down.

Then Mòrag is left sweating and gasping out loud, and Brighid is lying at her side, so close that it’s almost as if she’s still possessing her. Brighid takes her wrist, slowly bringing the dripping digits up, and they both lick the wetness off together. Their tongues brush against each other. Mòrag moves her hand out from between their faces, allowing her to close the slim gap and messily kiss Brighid.

Brighid rolls onto her back and pulls Mòrag on top of her, arms and wings trapping her in place.

“You’re mine. Do you realize that? You belong to me, and to no one else,” Brighid says into her ear, the assuredness in her voice wavering.

“I know,” Mòrag says, and she kisses her demon once more.


	4. in which Brighid is not meant to be a tool for war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mòrag comes to terms with things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cookiekitten91 @ tumblr drew some amazing art! ty cookie!! 
> 
> as always, any plot is just an afterthought so sorry if it's kind of a nonsensical mess. this whole thing is still completely self-indulgent thirsty smut

Becoming accustomed to Brighid’s constant presence comes far too easy.

In spite of the stirring rumors, in spite of her brother’s worrying glances, and in spite of how little sleep she gets these days, Mòrag finds that it isn’t _that_ bad, having this demon around and symbiotically attached to her.

She grows fond of her, in fact. Brighid is… quaint, and she hasn’t seemed to quite accept the nuances of human culture (clothing is still something they occasionally argue about), but. She’s so _skilled_ with her hands and tongue and her words continue to lull Mòrag’s shields down, and Mòrag is fully aware that a demon should never be trusted because a demon can never feel things like a human can, but perhaps she’d just begun to see Brighid as a person too.

Brighid is a person. She just happens to also be a demon.

Mòrag allows her head to be pulled back by a fistful of her hair, exposing her throat bare. A hot tongue runs across the spot that thrums with the vibrations of an appreciative groan. She likes it. She loves it. Even when those sharp claws roughly dig into her scalp to hold her in place and— another set of claws, dragging down her waist, bringing her spine to a tense curve as Mòrag pants and pants and holds onto Brighid’s shoulders for dear life, her own nails so dull in comparison.

She once told Brighid not to worry about hurting her, in a moment of agitated passion and just a touch of arrogant pride.

Then curiously enough, more hands join to run across her body, feeling and touching and scratching and groping. She can’t see. Something had covered her eyes. Perhaps those aren’t hands at all, but… no, they are. She’d know the feel of those slender fingers.

They’re all pulling her down in a spiral. Brighid is still tasting her throat.

“Brighid—?”

“Shhh…” Brighid whispers, briefly pressing her fangs against that soft vulnerable point that would gush so much blood if ruptured. Mòrag shudders. Too many hands to count are still all over her skin, and a pair pries her thighs apart. They’re so, so dangerously on the brink of tearing her into pieces, but she couldn’t care less if they did.

 _Don’t worry about hurting me_ , she had said. _It would take much more than that to take me down._

Her wrists are wrenched away from Brighid’s shoulders and pinned to the sheets. Mòrag tries to cry out in protest, because she _wants_ to hold onto her—

Brighid quietly laughs.

She’s burning, though it _always_ burns. Mòrag lets out a soft, high-pitched whimper as something slides over her thigh and then inside her, entrance made easy by the wetness, and all she can do is squeeze her eyes shut and _breathe and breathe_ while Brighid suckles at her neck and pulls at her hair, senses overloaded with everything touching her all at once from her chest to her arms to her hips and legs and face. Gently. Roughly. Like she’s a single prey caught in the center of an entire mob of predators. She bucks her hips against whatever is currently inside her; it quickly moves in and out, fucking her steadily amidst the chaos of all that touching, bringing her closer—

In the dark, she’s panting and sweating, one hand thrust down between her legs as she clumsily rubs herself through the fabric of her undergarments.

Mòrag stares up at the ceiling. Her skin is tingling from heat and clarity.

A… dream? A dream. It was just a dream.

“It was a good one, wasn’t it?”

Brighid is watching, lying beside her and propped up on one elbow. She flashes a bit of teeth when Mòrag hurriedly pulls her hand away from herself when she realizes what exactly she’d been doing. The blankets had been kicked away, leaving her exposed.

“Would you like me to help you finish?” Brighid asks, still smiling as if she’d heard a joke.

Mòrag scowls at her and quickly turns over the other way, so that Brighid might not see the shame all over her face. She should be more than used to that… kind of thing, by now, because she no longer spends the days fretting over how to keep Brighid under control and out of public sight.

But it’s just the way she is. Mòrag doesn’t even flinch when Brighid curls up against her from behind, nuzzling. That aching between her legs hasn’t died down in the least, but she tries to ignore it.

It doesn’t work.

“You don’t have to do that,” she snaps.

“Do what?”

“I…” For a moment, she loses her voice when Brighid begins to nibble at her. That dream was so… vivid. She can still imagine all those countless hands touching her and Brighid _fucking her_ — it very well could be real, if she would only issue the right commands to her demon. Could she? Surely. Mòrag sighs on reflex, eyelids fluttering.

“So tell me about your dream, Lady Mòrag.”

“Is there really a need to?” Mòrag breathes out, already beginning to melt beneath Brighid’s ministrations. Brighid is gently massaging her breasts now, so keenly aware of Mòrag’s exact weaknesses.

“I’d like to hear the details straight from you.”

“There was… a lot…” she groans, too tired and too aroused to bother fighting off Brighid. Why would she even want to fight her off? She wants this. Of course she wants this. Even though she really should sleep.

“A lot of what?”

“A lot of… you.” Her throat is dry. Damn it. Mòrag is able to find herself and grabs Brighid’s wrists just as she’s ready to pinch and cruelly tease her nipples. Her favorite. “Brighid— I, I really do need to sleep.”

There’s silence, then shuffling as Brighid reluctantly scoots back. The mattress slightly shifts beneath them.

“Are you sure?”

“I still have my job— during the, ah, daytime,” And Mòrag desperately wills herself to ignore the way her panties are soaked through, uncomfortable when she rubs her thighs together. It isn’t as though she’d completely lost any semblance of her self-control. Yet. She listens for any more noises, maybe the telltale sound of Brighid’s claws scratching across the pillow towards her, or even the rustling of her wings, but there’s nothing.

When they had first met, Brighid would have ignored her objections and gone straight for the kill… so to speak. But now, inexplicably, she actually obeys most of the time. Mòrag hesitates just once more.

“If you’re hungry…”

“No, I’m not,” Brighid says, and she leans over to kiss her hair as she pulls the blanket over her. “But thank you for your consideration, Lady Mòrag.”

A part of Mòrag wishes she were, just so she’d have a better excuse to give in to the temptations.

 

* * *

 

Mòrag has an odd tendency to cling while she sleeps.

Of course, Brighid doesn’t mind, because sometimes Mòrag’s hands will latch onto places where she normally wouldn’t latch onto so boldly if she were awake, but it’s a curious habit that rather belies her demeanor during the waking hours. If she had to pick a word for it… maybe _endearing_ would be fitting enough.

This isn’t the first time Brighid had been in the human world.

For demons, they have no say in when and where they are summoned, and by who. It’s simply the way things are, and no one exactly knows how this relationship between humans and demons came to be in the first place. Brighid never thought much of it. If she didn’t like her summoner (which happened much more often than not) she’d simply kill them on the spot, and then she’d be forcibly tossed back home.

It’s come to her attention that this is the longest time she’d spent in this world, when she presses her nose to Mòrag’s forehead and inhales the sweet scent of whatever wet dream she’s having now. Mòrag mutters in her sleep and squirms closer against Brighid.

Does it mean she _likes_ Mòrag? Well… of course. Mòrag tries so hard to keep her spine stiff, but she’s just so _fun_ and the way she unconsciously clings like this is… what was the word? Endearing.

And despite the accidental nature of how their bond had come to be, she’s certain that Mòrag had come to enjoy her company as well.

Maybe not in the way Brighid enjoys her company, though.

She wonders how much further she could stretch Mòrag’s limits.

 

* * *

 

The next day, King Eulogimenos and his royal party arrive at Hardhaigh Palace.

Emperor Niall is there to greet them, as is the entire imperial guard. Mòrag scrutinizes the King as his carriage approaches; he stiffly frowns at all of them from his high seat, though she suspects his face is just stuck like that. The sun certainly doesn’t seem to agree with his pallid complexion. Perhaps that’s the proper explanation for his squinting and frowning.

Somewhere from the back of the short procession, the Prince practically bounces over before anyone can make a proper greeting or announcement.

“Mòrag!” he bellows, arms open, completely ignoring everyone else. “It’s good to see you again! How long has it been?! Damn— have you gotten taller?!”

“Ozychlyrus,” she dryly says, not even surprised.

“Haha! I see you still haven’t been able to dislodge that stick from your ass!”

The entirety of the guard holds their breath. He just… said that… to the Special Inquisitor. King Eulogimenos is practically seething now, and Niall puts a hand to his face.

“Zeke, I _will_ send you straight back home, I swear on all the Gods—“

“Pfft. Lay off, Father! I’m just greeting an old friend!”

Mòrag tries very, very hard to pretend like she isn’t hearing any of this, but Zeke is standing right there and yelling and King Eulogeminos is pointing behind him as if he expects Zeke to simply start walking all the way back to Tantal. She can’t decide who’s the most embarrassed out of everyone present. Not Zeke, that’s for sure.

Hopefully Brighid isn’t watching all of this unfold from the bedroom window. But, she probably is. And knowing her, she's getting a good chuckle out of this spectacle.

“King Eulogimenos,” Niall coughs. “Come, you should rest. The journey must have been taxing. I’ll have the chefs bring food.”

“Oh— yes, that,” he grumbles, and then he barks at his son one more time before he goes to join Niall. “Behave yourself!”

“I know, I know! I’m not a kid anymore!” Zeke barks right back. He turns to Mòrag. “Anyway, looks like the great Zekenator’s gonna be your guest for the day!”

“No, thank you.”

“ _Ouch._ Rather poor demonstration of diplomatics, there.”

“I don’t see why you had to come. His Majesty only wished to speak to King Eulogimenos.”

“So what, that means I’m barred from visiting?” Zeke waves his hands in the air to embellish everything he says, even more obnoxiously large in personality than Mòrag remembers. The guards have all dutifully trailed after Niall, so they take a random turn down one of the other halls inside to slowly walk away from the train of royal escorts. She wouldn’t actually tell him to get lost. As… _eccentric_ as he is, he’s really not so terrible to be around. “My old man probably wouldn’t have even agreed to come out here if it weren’t for me. You know how Tantal is.”

“You’ve been making progress, at the very least.”

“At a turtle’s pace!” Zeke rubs at his nose with the back of his hand. “We’re in _shambles._ You’d cry if you saw the state Theosoir’s in now.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Okay— no, maybe I’m talking it up, but we’ve still got plenty of our own troubles to think about. And my father is bloody awful at negotiations.”

Mòrag raises her brow. “I would think you’d have more faith in your own King. But if that's the case, you should probably stay with him.”

“Eh, he’ll manage.” Zeke suddenly brings his hands together in a single, loud clap, and stops in his tracks. “But enough about the politics! How’ve you been?”

 _I’m fine_ , would be the automatic answer, but Mòrag stops walking as well and an entire plethora of images flashes through her mind. Blue fire. A close-up of that wooden floor Brighid had pinned her against. The dirty bricks in that alleyway. More fire. So much fire.

She’s sore all the time now, yet she’s so hungry, and tired and restless all at once. It’s as though she’s wide awake but a part of her remains asleep and dreaming of all the things Brighid had done and could do to her. But— she still thinks about her job, of course, and of all the problems that the Empire currently faces. That much would never change. Tensions with Uraya grow by the day and now they’ve resorted to dragging Tantal in for an alliance.

The might of two dying countries combined might just be able to hold their ground. Hah.

Everything with Brighid is just respite from all the stress, even though that is its own different kind of stress.

“I’m fine,” Mòrag says after two whole seconds.

“Liar. I see the bags under your eyes.”

“Such is the price of being Special Inquisitor during these times.” Mòrag sighs. Maybe she should take her own advice and go find the Emperor. But he had specifically told her to… take the day off, in a sense of the word, to enjoy a bit of rest. The advisors and Senators will be there to help him. “Perhaps I’ve been pushing myself, yes.”

Zeke is squinting at her, head tilted. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”

“Don’t pry, Zeke.”

“Well!” He holds his palms up. “ _Clearly_ you’ve got something other than political turmoil on your mind, so I just thought you could benefit from talking a bit.”

Her cheek pressed against hardwood. Bricks digging against her back. Brighid’s name slipping from her tongue again and again and again as she’s engulfed in her hellfire.

Like hell she’d talk about Brighid. Brighid is hers and hers alone to deal with. She’s… hers. Just as she belongs to Brighid.

“… Apologies,” Mòrag finally says, feeling quite awkward now. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a peer to speak with…” A human peer.

“Ohh yeah, I can tell.”

“But it’s not something I’m comfortable disclosing.”

The halls are completely empty and quiet. Somewhere, a couple stories above them, Brighid would be lounging around in Mòrag’s room. Maybe she’s reading a book. Or ripping apart a book. She’s partial to both hobbies. Mòrag continues walking, though at a slower pace, and Zeke follows.

“Since when have you ever worried about anything other than the affairs of your country, though?”

“I’m not _worried._ ” Just distracted. “My personal life outside of work is nobody’s business but my own.”

“You know,” Zeke says, giving her a rather odd look. “You’re still human. You can’t forget that you’re only human.”

Somehow, those words alone bother Mòrag more than they should.

 

* * *

 

She’s still thinking about it when she retires to her room for the evening and the Tantalese have all been herded off to the guest quarters. Negotiations are at a stalemate. Nobody can say that any progress has been made, because Eulogimenos is too set in his ways and Niall keeps offering too many compromises and not enough ultimatums. Mòrag probably should have been at the meeting. Zeke should have, too. In the end, he had dragged Mòrag around Alba Cavanich to ogle the sights and bother the townspeople.

Brighid is lounging on the bed when Mòrag closes the door behind her. A book is open on the desk, though some of its pages had been ripped out.

“You have _guests_.”

“Only for a week, at the most.”

“Why are you even bothering with all these diplomatics? Just use my strength to annihilate that… whatever country you’re going to war with.”

“Uraya. It’s Uraya.”

“Should I remember their name when you incinerate them into dust?”

Mòrag wearily removes her clothes, the routine purely muscle memory. She tries to take her time with it, as well as taking her mind off everything else. What Brighid says makes sense, sort of, because Mòrag _did_ summon a demon for that very purpose in the first place. More firepower is better firepower. They’d even been training together in between their regular… sessions, and now they’re more in sync than ever before. Mòrag could kill an entire platoon of soldiers like it isn't even an effort, using Brighid's fires.

But she doesn’t want to use Brighid like that. Not anymore. If all goes well, by some miracle, maybe they could even circumvent the potential for war entirely.

And then she'd just be left with this succubus in her life.

“Sit.” She gestures to the couch. Brighid obligingly climbs off the bed. As usual, she’s completely naked.

Mòrag stands in front of Brighid, still taking her clothes off.

“The other night, you asked me to tell you about the dream I had.” Her throat is dry. She licks her lips. Brighid does, too.

“I did,” she nods.

Her undershirt is dropped to the floor. Then, her pants follow. Mòrag steps out of them, then decides to leave her boots on. Leather today, no greaves or pointy bits. They won't get in the way.

Brighid smiles and slightly parts her legs, hands on her knees. Those boots are all that’s left on Mòrag's body, but she understands.

“You were touching me…” Mòrag lowly says, straddling her lap so slowly and leisurely. “ _Everywhere_ at once, with so many hands.”

“I grew extra arms?” Brighid asks with a chuckle. Mòrag hasn’t completely lowered herself down onto her lap yet, the heat between her legs exposed for Brighid to touch if she pleases. But instead, she touches her hips, lightly tracing nonsensical patterns with the tips of her claws.

Not yet. Not until she has Mòrag begging for it.

“No. They were… simply there. I don’t know. My eyes were covered.”

“So I was touching you. Then what?” She cranes her neck to rest her chin upon Mòrag’s sternum, looking up. For that, she dares to wrap her arms around her waist and pull her in close, and now she can feel the heat even more clearly. It radiates throughout her entire body, calling for Brighid to seize it.

Her appetite is baring its fangs.

Breathlessly, “You were violating me inside and out.” She shudders and bites her lower lip, recounting that dream for more than it was. Dreams always fade before the noon, but she could at least embellish the fabrication of a memory. “All I wanted was more.”

“Is that so?”

“Please, Brighid—“ Finally, she lowers herself, and begins to grind against Brighid’s thigh with sharp little rolls of her hips. Brighid helps guide her, keeping a firm grip on her with both hands. “I don’t care about the Tantalese, or the alliance, or the war. Not right now… _nngh—_ ”

Mòrag nearly looks downright disturbed behind the haziness of her eyes, as if she can’t even believe she’s doing this herself. Since when did she become like this? After the first time Brighid bent her over on the floor? When she was fucked in that alleyway? The first time Brighid possessed her body? She holds onto Brighid, just as she had in the dream, not even caring that Brighid seemingly isn’t doing anything to help anymore as she continues to grind and hump Brighid’s thigh.

A minute trickles by. The only sounds are Mòrag's uneven breathing and her soft groans of effort. 

“ _Ah—_ ” A sharp gasp, then a moan. She’s left feeling oddly empty in the wake of her orgasm. Incapable of thinking in the searing pleasure, she resumes rubbing herself against Brighid, this time at a clumsier pace.

She manages to sort of mumble an apology for making an absolute mess, but Brighid only kisses the corner of her mouth.

“You couldn’t handle two, or three, or four of me.”

“Th-there was… more than that…” She moans, already working herself up to a second orgasm while she's still oversensitive. Just _thinking_ about all those hands all over her…

“What happened to your unwavering duty to your job?” Brighid purrs, leaning back to watch as Mòrag begins to play with her own breasts while she continues to grind.

“I’m— _nngh!_ ” A rough shudder wracks through her, and for a moment she’s still, mouth slightly parted.

Then, again. She resumes. Brighid has to admire how much stamina she’d built up through all the times they’ve fucked. Mòrag moans in gratitude when Brighid gently pushes her hands out of the way to tease her nipples, pinching and twisting. She’d completely lost any semblance of rhythm to her grinding, gladly wincing in pain and pleasure. Now, she’s simply writhing, doing anything to get any of that sweet pressure against her clit.

“I want it,” Mòrag sobs, quivering. “Please.”

“Hmm,” Brighid is patient. She can prolong this as long as she feels like. “All you have to do is command me. I’m yours.”

No. That’s wrong. Brighid doesn’t belong to her, _she_ belongs to Brighid. Mòrag cries out as she manages to hit her third orgasm, so tired but still so hungry, still thinking of the dream and what Zeke told her and all the things she’d been trying to deny even after all this time. She’s only human, damn it. Damn it all. While the world threatens to burn, all she can think about is _this._

It’s degrading, and wrong, and filthy, and so very incredible.

Shaking, Mòrag raises herself off of Brighid’s lap, though to kneel over her. They’re soaked and sticky by her own quim. Some of it might have gotten onto the couch cushions, but this is far from the first time they’ve made a mess during sex.

“I, I want _five_ of you.”

Brighid laughs. “That’s a hefty demand.”

“More, if you can sustain that.” Mòrag reaches down to swipe her fingers over her soaked, aching slit, and brings her hand back up to lick the wetness right off. She’s still quivering all over, but she maintains eye contact with Brighid as she cleans her own mess off her fingers. “I want five of you using me and fucking me however you please until I can’t even move.”

“Like in your dream?”

Mòrag blushes deeply, two fingertips pressed to her tongue. “It— It’s a crude adaptation.”

“I could manage that, yes…” Brighid pushes a hand between Mòrag’s legs to rub at that hot wetness. “But it would take an exceptional amount of energy. It’s a rather bold demand, besides.”

“Being human is not a weakness,” Mòrag blurts out, her voice thick. She tilts her head back, enjoying the attention Brighid is currently giving to her, hips twitching whenever she teases her entrance with just a fingertip. “And you’re no tool for war, you’re a… a…”

“Ah, so that’s it…” She withdraws her hand. Mòrag whimpers in protest, bucking her hips against nothing. “You’re learning fast, Lady Mòrag.”

“Brighid—“

“I expect you to beg,” she hisses, pulling her in close. Mòrag drops back down on her lap and gasps, awkwardly trying to find that previous rhythm of grinding. Mòrag is too arrogant. She’s too weak. She’s too strong. She’s indulging Brighid as much as she’s indulging her own depraved ideas, all while somehow never looking down on her in spite of everything.

This is why Brighid hasn’t killed her. This is why she _likes_ her.

“But you won’t be begging me to stop,” she says, slightly bouncing her leg to help Mòrag along. “You’ll come again and again and again and you won’t know where it ends. This is only the warm-up. Do you understand?”

“Yes— yes, _yes_ ,” she moans, arms thrown around Brighid’s shoulders and on the verge of tears.

Humans are so fickle, and simple, and easy to manipulate. After a while, Brighid had become rather bored with them, but Mòrag offers something nuanced that tastes and smells so irresistibly sweet. She’s _begging_ for her limits to be stretched, all to prove some obscure point about how she’s meant to be taken seriously, as well as to prove herself to Brighid. It’s utter nonsense. All that’s left is for her to admit she’s just horny most of the time.

Mòrag comes yet again, and Brighid’s tail snakes around to slide over her thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an orgy gangbang of Mòrag getting railed by five Brighids would be fun but idk if i'll actually write it because wtf is effort


	5. in which Mòrag is gradually but surely going off the deep end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brighid follows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year lmao 
> 
> idk where i'm going with the plot stuff so bear with me
> 
> —also thank you to a certain someone for the _very_ inspiring fanart 😏

She’s not sure if she’s dreaming or not. This is… very real, if it is a dream, and a part of her is wary and tries to insist it is, but it’s hard to securely grasp onto that bit of clarity and think that— yes, it’s real. No, it’s not.

Brighid nips at her ear with sharp teeth. Mòrag squeezes her eyes shut and tightens her grip on Brighid’s shoulders, shuddering and breathless as two fingers pump in and out of her.

It’s not a dream.

Right?

“Remind me again,” Brighid murmurs, stroking her face with the hand that isn’t down between her legs. “How many did you want?”

“Five—“ she manages to choke out just as Brighid curls her fingers, surely intentional.

She swears Brighid laughed just now. And Mòrag would be well within her rights as her summoner to… do something, in response that display of disrespect, but she figures they’ve long gone past that line of supposed authority. As if there was any authority on her part in the first place, since the day Brighid appeared in that summoning circle. It’s definitely laughable. Unfortunately.

Mòrag still has her eyes squeezed shut as Brighid pushes her off her lap and back onto the bed. She can see an intense light through her eyelids, or maybe it was just her imagination— it was just for a moment. This could still be a dream.

Her face is cupped by two warm hands, the bed shifting beside her as Brighid kneels at her head.

Two more hands are running up and down her thighs.

Mòrag sharply inhales and finally _looks_. Her head is held firmly in place and she can’t sit up, but there’s very unmistakably a second Brighid kneeling between her legs, smiling at her shock.

Then that Brighid ducks down without any other sort of prelude, and Mòrag’s back arches off the bed with a sharp cry.

“Don’t look away. Look at _me_ ,” Brighid, the one kneeling at her head, commands. Mòrag does without question. Brighid holds her there, simply watching, smiling, as that copy of herself eagerly licks and hums between Mòrag’s quivering legs, dragging claws across her hips.

The technique is… rough, still. Manifesting these copies, that is. One extra is manageable, but _four?_ Autonomous or not, it would still take a tremendous amount of energy to produce _four._ Well, no matter. She’ll just consider it another exercise of power.

In a sense of the phrase. Or not.

Besides, _that look on Mòrag’s face._ Brighid pats her cheek, then pushes a finger into her slack mouth for Mòrag to suck. Her hands are scrabbling at the sheets as she nears climax. She moans and pleads, not with any sort of obscene noise, but with her unsteady gaze. Begging, as she always does. It never gets tiring.

“Alright, five shouldn’t be a problem,” Brighid lightly says. Her tail twitches. The air in the room surges with unseen energy, like a fire fed fresh kindling to flare and burn so much brighter. It lasts only a moment, so briefly that Mòrag may have not even noticed.

“Do you think she’ll die?” The other Brighid sits up, licking her lips and still holding Mòrag’s legs apart.

“Haha… it’s a possibility.”

“Don’t push yourself, Lady Mòrag,” she sweetly says, caressing her thighs.

Mòrag mumbles something incoherent and turns her head from side to side, drool spilling over her lip.

“Look, she’s barely conscious as is.”

A third Brighid is suddenly _there_ , kneeling at Mòrag’s side. This time, there’s no outward reaction when Mòrag notices her, but she does weakly raise an arm and reach for her.

“Ahh…” So she takes Mòrag hand and kisses it, a crude imitation of sincere affection.

Mòrag smiles dreamily.

Then there’s a fourth Brighid, crawling up behind the second, gently nudging her aside to try to squeeze her way in between Mòrag’s spread legs beside her.

“We could give her more of our own fire.”

“How many times did she come, so far?”

“Only three.”

The fifth Brighid is across the third, at Mòrag’s right side. She’s completely surrounded now.

“Five…” she mutters, every blink heavier than the last as she glances between each of them. They’re all identical, down to the segments of their tails. No— the one who had been holding her head before, the one whose finger she’d suckled… their eyes meet. Mòrag flinches at the sight, then relaxes.

“Yes, five of us. Just as you commanded, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid, the real Brighid, says. She gently runs her fingers through dark hair as all five of them help her sit up, groping and touching and scratching and pinching, and Mòrag tries very hard not to think about the possibility of actually dying.

 

* * *

 

Her eyes are covered when one of the Brighids lays upon her to kiss her, greedily pushing her forked tongue into her mouth with eager moans. Mòrag would touch her but— both her wrists are pinned. No, only one of them is pinned. The other… she feels something hot and wet around two of her fingers, and dimly realizes another Brighid must be licking her hand.

“You’ve gotten better at kissing,” a whisper in her ear praises, and in spite of how deliciously wrong this entire thing is, Mòrag feels an odd swell of pride.

Of course she’s gotten better. There’s been… plenty of practice, after all.

“As expected, of our Lady Mòrag,” a Brighid laughs, probably the one pinning down her left wrist.

She smiles against the sloppy kiss and even tries to crane her neck up a bit, as if she could take some semblance of control. But, no, the hands covering her eyes push her head back down, and Mòrag whimpers, then _jolts_ as something brushes up against her sore pussy.

“Are you too sensitive?”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Don’t let her die… don’t let her die.”

Mòrag would say something if she could, but all she can do is moan into the kiss, her jaw momentarily going slack as something enters her, _not_ a tongue… and the Brighid that had been kissing her abruptly pulls back and sits up, pushing her hands down upon her breasts. She feels her hips grinding down against her lap to the same rhythm of the tail inside her. It’s just as she remembered, the first time Brighid had used it on her in that cramped alleyway.

“A-ahh— _ah—_ ,” Mòrag stutters, all but immobilized as she’s being fucked.

“She’s… still tight…” Brighid softly sighs out loud, and she grinds her hips down just a bit harder, groin to groin, and Mòrag feels the heat of her arousal—

On her hand as well. That Brighid who had been patiently sucking her fingers had put her hand down upon the sheets, palm facing up, and Mòrag doesn’t even need her vision to know that that slightly heavy pressure is Brighid sitting on it. Accordingly, Mòrag cautiously curls her fingers and—  _oh_ , Brighid is so _warm_ , clenching around her digits, and now she shifts around to get a more comfortable grip on Mòrag’s wrist and use her fingers to pleasure herself.

“Keep your fingers stiff,” Brighid breathlessly says. “That’s it…”

It’s the first time she’s done this for her, Mòrag realizes. As a succubus, it had only made sense that Brighid would only ever be interested in pleasuring Mòrag in order to feed; she doesn’t… technically _need_ to come herself.

That she’s doing this is proof that it’s purely for the indulgence of it. Not as a necessity, but because she wants to. She wants to just as much as Mòrag wants to.

She feels something soft beneath her other palm. Blearily, Mòrag slightly tilts her head to her left; Brighid is holding her hand against her breast, no doubt by the feel of it, and she sighs aloud as Mòrag shakily squeezes her and fondles.

“You’re rather good at multi-tasking, aren’t you?” She keeps Mòrag’s hand pushed to the softness of her breast, bringing herself closer. Mòrag can’t think of a response to that, except.

“I- I can use my mouth,” Mòrag pants, yearning to at least try. It’s already too much to keep track of— trying to jerk her hips to the rhythm of the tail fucking her and Brighid grinding down on her, keeping her fingers stiff for Brighid to use, touching the one to her left, and so many other hands still caressing her body all over.

“Oh?”

“Let me—“ And for a lack of better words, she simply opens her mouth and waggles her tongue.

Brighid laughs. “ _Oh._ ”

She can’t help it, fingers twitching and sharply curling inside Brighid as she comes, but Brighid seems to enjoy it if her cry is any indication, and the tail inside her slows down but doesn’t pull out.

Finally, the hands covering her eyes move away. Mòrag breathes hard, her skin already damp with sweat, and stares up at Brighid. At all of them. The one at her right side, the one that had been using her hand, gives her a coy smile and licks her own mess off of Mòrag’s fingers.

It’s the first Brighid that sits back against all the pillows that had been pushed against the headboard. The one with her eyes open, beckoning for Mòrag to approach as she opens her legs and gestures.

“Then by all means, Lady Mòrag.”

They help turn her over and pull her up onto her hands and knees, pushing her to crawl forward. So Mòrag does, like an animal, her head kept low but her stare entirely focused forward.

Once she’s close enough, Brighid grabs her head and pulls her in, pressing Mòrag’s nose to that smoldering patch of hair. She smells like… like… something else entirely. Not sweet but not unpleasant, either. Brighid’s tail wraps loosely around her neck, holding her in place.

And it’s with that tail around her neck that Mòrag boldly licks her with her tongue pressed flat, suddenly unable to recall how Brighid always does it to _her._ But of course it’d be different. Her tongue is forked. And she’s a succubus. Mòrag is just… she’s still a human. A human who’s still inexperienced, relatively, in spite of everything they’d done so far.

But Brighid is moaning above her and her tail is curling just a little bit more tightly, so surely that must mean something. The other Brighids around them murmur their approval and one of them— or maybe it’s two of them— take ahold of her hips to raise her ass in the air, and push her legs apart.

She half-expects to feel a mouth upon her own pussy while she eats out Brighid, but instead, something enters her— a tail, again, and she can’t find any reason to complain as it slowly fucks her and there’s so many hands all over the rest of her body, making it somewhat difficult to focus on the task at hand.

It’s not even a matter of pride anymore. How can it be, when she’s on her elbows and knees, eating out while being fucked from behind in such a degrading position? She dares to rest her hands on Brighid’s thighs as if there’s any need to hold them apart, momentarily swirling the tip of her tongue around her clit before readying to push her tongue into her entrance, taking quick breaths through her nose. The taste, the smell, the _taste…_

The… something else is there, next to that tail inside her, and Mòrag instinctually tries to lift her head to look behind but there’s still that tail wrapped around her neck to hold her in place.

“I could put mine in as well, can’t I?”

_Two at once?_

She makes a noise of protest that quickly turns into a shuddering moan when the tail pushes in deeper, twisting and turning, before suddenly pulling out and leaving her dripping and wanting. All the while she continues to work her tongue inside Brighid, determined not to falter again.

“Well… we can try that later.”

“She’s still tight.”

“Not as much as before.”

“She’s still only a _human_.”

“Oh, I have an idea.”

“Wait— be quiet, all of you, be quiet,” Brighid gasps as she leans back against the nest of pillows, chest heaving and fingers curling through a fistful of Mòrag’s hair. Her tail coils so tightly around her neck that it would surely leave marks.

“Ahh…”

They’re all over her at once, cooing praises and fondling her as Brighid comes, her orgasm sending a very tangible shock of energy through Mòrag that renders her _awake_ for just a split moment—

— _what am I doing, why am I doing this, I shouldn’t be, there are more important matters, the alliance with Tantal, the war, the war—_

—and it’s gone once she’s caught between all those warm bodies, pulled upright so quickly her head is spinning and she’s still moving her mouth and tongue with the clumsy motions that had brought Brighid to orgasm. Brighid moves forward, practically glowing, and gently kisses her.

Everything is stabilized once more.

 

* * *

 

Everything feels like a dream.

 

* * *

 

“Special Inquisitor.”

Mòrag jolts. She brings the tips of her fingers to her temples and gingerly rubs to offset the strange haziness that was…

That was…

Wait. Gloves. Cap. Clothes. Where is Brighid?

“Special Inquisitor!”

King Eulogimenos narrows his eyes, just one more bark short of slamming a hand down on the table where they’re all gathered. Niall bites his lip in concern and says nothing, seated too far away to nudge Mòrag’s shoulder or mutter his worry to her. They’re all staring. Shit.

“Shit,” she mumbles under her breath, blinking hard and trying to remember when exactly she’d ended up here. Wasn’t she just… in bed… with Brighid, and… no, wait. That was before. Last night? Or was it two nights ago? She doesn’t recall ever getting up and getting dressed.

“Your thoughts on the Emperor’s proposal, if you will?”

Was Niall even speaking just now?

Niall softly clears his throat. “Special Inquisitor, if you need to step out of the room for some air…”

“Yes— please, pardon me. Your Majesty,” she quietly says, and stands too quickly and strides out of the room too quickly, unable to look at any of them. She brushes past the guards stationed at the door, still rubbing at her temples. She sort of remembers bits and pieces of what had happened afterwards, but she most definitely can't call back to how she'd ended up all the way here, in a scene so mundane and normal and dull. Was it Brighid? No, if it was possession, she'd feel her presence inside her. Probably. 

Heavy footsteps hurry after her. Mòrag walks just a little faster.

“Hey! Mòrag! What was that about?!”

Where is Brighid?

“You’ve been spacing out the whole day. That’s not like you.”

Still in her room. Of course.

“Seriously, the hell’s the matter with you?!”

She wants to…

“ _Mòrag!_ ”

Zeke grabs her shoulder and roughly yanks, forcing her to stop and face him— and there’s something so furious in her eyes and a warning in her bared teeth for a split second, burning so harshly, that he immediately lets go and steps back in alarm.

And then it’s just Mòrag again, crossing her arms in annoyance.

“What do you want, Zeke?”

“Where’re you going? Aren’t you worried at all about my old man giving the Emperor his mighty stink-eye? They’re close to coming to a compromise, you know! In case you haven’t noticed at all!”

She wonders if those extra manifestations of Brighid had disappeared yet, or if all five of them are still waiting for her on the bed.

“I… only need some air. Go. I’ll rejoin the negotiations later.”

Zeke’s expression falls and he takes another step back. There’s _something_ there he’s unsure off, though he can’t even guess what it is. It’s been there since the day he arrived in Mor Ardain, but at the time, he had assumed she was just… tired.

There’s something wrong with Mòrag.

But Tantal needs this alliance with Mor Ardain even more than Mor Ardain needs them. He stomps a foot in frustration, as childish as it is, and marches back to stop his father from trying to intimidate the Emperor even further while Mòrag continues walking in the opposite direction without another word. 

 

* * *

 

They’re waiting on the bed just as she’d expected. Mòrag doesn’t bother undressing, knowing that they would be able to remove all her clothes faster than she could do it herself, and stumbles over to fall into their open arms. She buries her face against the softness of Brighid’s chest and inhales, smiling as the other four shred her clothes away.

“You were looking forward to this, hm?”

“Yes, I was,” she admits.

Two of them turn her around to sit nestled between them, the other three glancing between each other with playful smiles. Mòrag does have to wonder just how far their autonomy extends, but the thought is gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“We thought of trying something new. For you, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid, the one to her left, says. To her right, she kisses Mòrag’s neck and takes her hand in her own.

She feels… safe, in the midst of all this, even when one of them briefly reveals a hungry glint in her eyes and reaches forward to push her legs apart. They’re waiting? For her. But of course. Because she’s their summoner and their… food source. Because Brighid needs her as much as she needs Brighid.

Isn’t that simplicity what makes it work so well?

Mòrag leans back and smiles.

“Then. Show me, Brighid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there'll be a continuation with more kinky shit, i just got tired HAHA but yeah 
> 
> i'm (tentatively) open to suggestions if anyone has ideas for future chapters, just don't be weird about it. updates will be sparse and sporadic as usual oops.


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